Joan gingerly climbed the ladder, and John helped her step out on to the beams of the little loft. He’d lit an oil lamp hanging on a hook, which gave the wooden space a gentle lemon hue. It had started to rain outside, and the sound of raindrops formed a gentle patter on the roof. The gaps between the beams were only plasterboard, so the two lovers took care to step only on the wood. Mouse-eaten cardboard boxes, orange crates and suitcases secured by belts were piled around the cool stone arch of the walls.

Smith squatted, lost his balance, waved his arms and was only saved from falling by Joan putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He started to untie one of the suitcases.

‘So what is it about this umbrella that so intrigues you?’ Joan asked. ‘I thought we might get on with the business of jam.’

‘It’s just’⁠ — Smith opened the first suitcase and began to sort through the items he found there⁠ — ‘I remember a strange umbrella, but I don’t. I know I had one, but I don’t remember carrying it… using it… getting it.’

‘How strange. I do like this attic of yours, it reminds me of Christmas. A wonderful darkness and light at the same time.’ Joan sat on a packing case and looked around primly. ‘When I was a girl, we were the first people in our town to have a Christmas tree. My father saw the big one in London that Prince Albert had brought over, and thought that it was a good idea. At first, visitors would comment on how strange it was to have a tree inside the house, but then they all started to have them, so Father felt vindicated.’

‘My father wasn’t that sort of person.’ Smith glared at a pair of juggling balls he’d pulled from the case, threw them up in the air, tangled his arms and missed catching them. ‘He was in the Navy, a military man. He went missing.’

‘Did you ever discover what had become of him?’ Unseen by Smith, Joan had taken the ring he’d given her from the pocket of her cardigan, and was turning it over in her fingers.

‘No. Everybody thought that he was a traitor, but I don’t think that’s true.’

‘My goodness. And what about Verity, your former fiancée?’

‘Former? Does that mean I have one now?’

‘Don’t count your chickens.’

‘I haven’t seen her in years. Except… in a dream. She married a teacher⁠ — or was it a soldier?’

‘You told me it was a sailor.’

‘Did I? Perhaps it was. I’m very confused.’

‘You do seem to be a trifle perturbed, today. Why, for instance, did you insist that we walk so swiftly away from the end of the field? I nearly dropped my blackberries, you rushed me so.’